Contents of Your Closet
by Ennui-EAF
Summary: A sniper and an assassin - each had tools of their trade. Their closets held innumerable items for work, for play, even for sentiment. Each piece of apparel had significance and each told a story. One-shots, some T , some M.
1. Chapter 1 Black Silk Stockings

Black Silk Stockings

It was, of course, raining in Prague when Clint realized they'd picked up a tail. Six months as partners, tentatively feeling the other person out and hoping that you wouldn't end up with your throat slit during the night, and now here he was strolling through the rain with the Black Widow after a stakeout. And what was probably two local goons following them.

The Widow leaned against his shoulder, looking for all the rest of the world like a slightly tipsy lover trying to stay dry under the umbrella. "The alley ahead," she murmured.

Clint's eyes had already picked out the darkened hollow between the buildings, even in the rain and gloom. "Do you want the umbrella or should I?" he whispered back, bending his head and letting his mouth drift suspiciously close to her ear. The two watching and following behind would think that they were just sharing pleasant nothings together.

She 'stumbled' a bit, making her heels drag on the wet pavement. "I can snap their necks with one hand, you're the one who needs a weapon."

He tightened an arm around her, pulling her in closer. "Whatever you say, darling," Clint smiled back. He could feel the coiled energy in her frame as he hugged her against his side. The Widow was all dressed up for a night on the town, just like him. Clint briefly wished for better shoes, these fancy Italian things might look the part, but they'd be a bitch for traction on the wet ground. She had to contend with heels, stockings and a skin-tight black dress that was cut down to there. Once again, Clint pondered the hardships of having a professional seductress as his partner. Particularly a jumpy and distrustful one. So far, he'd managed to ignore the blatant hotness of his new partner. He had a feeling that was driving her a little nuts, and at the same time, gaining him a little respect.

They were approaching the alley, and Natasha stumbled a little, letting loose a drunken giggle. She tugged on his arm, seemingly pulling him into the darkness with a glowing, crooked smile on her face. Clint leered at her and followed. She headed straight back to the end of the deadend alley, back where it was darkest. She sidled back and then put her back against the wall, pulling Clint close.

He had to mentally grit his teeth a little, after all, she was warm and soft and _so_ sexy and he was pressed up against her. His face was buried in her damp neck and she was arching and rubbing up against him like a cat in heat. But Clint took steady breaths and concentrated on the quiet footsteps trying to sneak up behind them. The Widow was watching through her lashes, he knew, and he just hoped she'd give him a signal rather than let him get conked on the head like she did a few months ago in Singapore.

He felt her quick indrawn breath and took it as a sign. He whirled around, lashing out with the umbrella in one hand and his left foot as a quick followup. Bam! Big fucker behind him staggered back. Christ, he _was_ big. What were they feeding these guys in Prague? The dude had to be pushing seven feet tall and probably two-fifty in muscle. Clint ducked and blocked a strike that was heavy enough to make him stagger a little before he swept the guy's feet out from under him and got him down with an arm locked around his windpipe. As he felt the big body go limp and pass out, he spared a glance for how his partner was doing with her own thug.

The Black Widow was just standing up, daintily brushing her hands off as the other guy lay sprawled on the ground. He hoped she hadn't actually killed him, that would bring just a little too much attention to their still-in-progress job. Clint raised an eyebrow in query at her.

She smiled, just a quirk at the corner of her lips. "Please," she said. "Don't you remember when you found me in Mumbai?"

Clint resisted the urge to roll his eyes. So he'd met her with five dead bodies around her feet. Fine. As he recalled, he also had an arrow pointed at her chest at the time, too. "Got anything we can lash them with?" he asked. "I didn't think to bring zipties to the opera."

"Why don't we just heave them in the river?" Natasha asked, poking at her thug with the toe of her still-pristine high-heeled shoe. "I usually prefer no loose ends."

"Yeah, but S.H.I.E.L.D.'s going to want to interrogate them first, and we really don't have the facilities to do it ourselves," he said, heading off the comment he could see behind her eyes. "So let's tie 'em up, call Coulson and get them picked up before some locals wander by."

He thought she muttered something in Russian, something that was probably uncomplimentary to him and his employers. He kinda liked that about her. "Fine," she sighed, and she reached down to the hem of her skirt.

Clint couldn't help it, his eyes widened just a bit, just a little bit, as she slid the hem of that snug black dress up until he could see the tops of her black stockings. Christ. She was wearing stockings and a garter belt. He was fighting to keep a straight, blank face as she slowly, rather excessively so, he thought thickly, unfastened the stockings and rolled them down, down those creamy legs. Her toes were painted a pale pink as she slipped them off.

She dangled one of the stockings from her fingertips. "Do you want the honors, or should I do that, too?" she asked sweetly. Her skirt was still a whole lot higher than Clint was comfortable with, considering his whole pretend-she's-got-no-sex-appeal program.

He mentally slapped himself around. "I was a carnie, sweetheart," he drawled, reaching out and snagging the slippery silk stocking. It was still warm from her skin. "I'm a pro at knots."

Hawkeye busied himself with lashing the hands and feet of each of the big men on the ground, while Natasha slipped her shoes back on and then pulled out her cell phone from her evening bag to call the incident in. Not bad, he thought, congratulating himself. He'd handled that reasonably cooly and calmly. Right? Right. He straightened up from his task just as she slipped the phone in her bag again.

"Coulson said to wander back out into the square and just keep an eye out until he gets here," she said, brushing now-wet hair back out of her eyes. Clint could feel the rain dripping down his collar as well.

"Right," he said, stepping around the bodies on the ground and holding out his arm for her. "Let's go, sweetheart."

She murmured something else, in Russian again, as they stumbled out of the alley. He caught her around the waist as they wandered rather aimlessly toward the rain-soaked square. "What was that?" he said softly.

"Может быть, это будет работать, в конце концов," she said. He waited a moment, but she didn't translate for him. He had a feeling he got the jist of it, anyway. Her body was relaxed, her face was calm, and her eyes were steady. She didn't hate his guts, and they'd handled the alleyway just fine.

"We make a good team, you know," he told her, giving her a little bump and twirl. Her wet red curls flipped water at him and he gave her a small smile. Somewhat to his shock, she smiled back. A small, but a real smile.

"Maybe," she said.

Next - Gray Flannel Shirt

AN - This is for KBAMilne, who was so kind as to leave me a few suggestions for one-shots. Anyone else, suggest a clothing/closet item in your review and I'll see what I can do!


	2. Chapter 2 Gray Flannel Shirt

**Gray Flannel Shirt**

Apparently the whole thing had started back when Hawkeye was first recruited, or so Natasha had been told. She'd already figured out for herself that her partner didn't do well with inactivity. Waiting, sure. He was a sniper, he could sit and not move a muscle for hours while he watched a mark. But by golly, keep him grounded to the helicarrier for weeks at a time without a mission, and the man would go stir-crazy.

Apparently Coulson had figured this out rather quickly, back after he'd recruited Barton. That had been the beginning of the Coulson-Barton prank war. This was round five or six, according the the word in the hallways. They'd been grounded for nearly three weeks now, and Natasha was pretty sure one of them was going to end up accidentally killing the other soon.

Not that the pranks were necessarily dangerous. There were certain lines you didn't cross. Coulson never messed with Hawkeye's equipment, for example, in case some mission came in and they had to leave. His room, clothes, food, that was all fair game. And Hawkeye didn't touch communications. Coulson would need those if they got a call. But everything else, including public nudity, was on the table.

At least they'd been smart enough to leave her out of it, she thought, not for the first time as she moved smoothly into another yoga position. Natasha was finishing off her workout for the day, Barton was already headed into the showers. He needed one, after she'd kicked his ass for the, ooo, fifth time? She resisted the urge to smirk. After all, there were other people in the room training at the moment, and she preferred the look of abject fear they were all currently sporting. She was the Black Widow, and had a reputation to maintain.

Natasha stretched a little farther, bending her back just a bit more. Flexibility was key to her job, and she needed to keep as limber as possible. She'd enjoyed watching the war, truth be told. Coulson had fired the first salvo. Apparently that was how each previous round had started, as well. It had been a simple prank, locking Barton naked in the hallway. She had to admit, that hadn't been a bad way to start a prank war. After all, her partner was a very well built man, and it wasn't exactly a hardship to have to watch him walk around butt-naked. Literally. Too bad he'd gotten a hold of a file folder. She'd secretly wondered just how, err, well-hung the Hawk was. There were rumors, after all.

Barton hadn't wasted much time following up. Coulson's dinner the next evening had unexpectedly exploded in his face. Mashed potatoes up the handler's nose had been quite amusing. Then there had been the video aired over the screens in the carrier of Barton getting chased and shrieking as a, yes, little girl of about age 5 screeched after him wearing a huge poof of pink tulle and a sparkly crown. She'd been shrieking something about "wanna fly" and "going to marry you someday!" That had been the last time Hawkeye had been talked into attending a work colleague's barbeque.

The Black Widow switched positions, bending backward now, legs pointed and curled and arms tucked beneath her. She could see the whole room quite well from her mat. For some reason, no one wanted to 'intrude' on her routine. Might have something to do with the smackdown she'd just finished on her partner, or maybe it was the latest rumor that she'd snapped the wrist of the last guy who tried to talk to her while working out. Either way. It meant she got all the space she wanted, and if it kept the majority of SHIELD agents out of her hair, all the better. She liked a little fear in their eyes.

At any rate, the prank war was highly entertaining and she was rather enjoying it. Not that she'd ever tell Barton, but she was rather rooting for him to get a good one on Coulson. Their handler had booked them into one too many seedy motels recently. Natasha would have to address that with him.

There was a shriek, rather reminiscent of that video, she thought, that came out of the men's locker rooms, and the other agents in the training room jerked and stared. The Widow rather leisurely rolled up to her knees. She rather thought that Coulson had sprung his latest prank, and had a feeling she was about to see the results.

Sure enough, about thirty seconds later, something or rather someone came storming out of the men's locker rooms. Natasha had to keep her jaw from dropping. Her partner, she was pretty sure it was Barton, was clutching what looked like a towel around his waist and was pink. Bright pink. PeptoBismol pink from the tips of his hair to the toes on his feet. It was dripping pink off his nose and staining the formerly white towel and puddling behind him as he stomped (or squelched) his way over to where she was.

"Stop!" she was forced to say when it looked like he was going to just keep coming and get _her_ covered in that pink... whatever. The Hawk came to a halt about three feet from her, glowering (she thought) under the pink goo dripping off his eyelashes.

"Look! Look! He... he..." Barton was sputtering and spitting and growling. And was pink. Very pink.

"Ah..." She really wasn't sure what he wanted her to say. Or do. "Did you try a different shower?"

"I'M PINK!" He shouted.

"I can see that," she said gravely. And oh dear lord, she could feel it starting in her belly. Ruthlessly, she tried to quash it. After all, it wouldn't do to loose her composure when the whole room was staring avidly at them.

"I'M PINK! AND THAT SON OF A BITCH STOLE MY CLOTHES AGAIN!" Ooo, he was really seething, wasn't he?

"You've got a towel..." she tried. And dammit, it was spreading up her belly and she could feel it tickling the corners of her mouth.

"A PINK TOWEL!" Barton was raving.

Oh, good god, she was going to loose the battle. "You sure?" slipped out before she could help herself. And then he looked down at the towel he was clutching and a glop of pink plopped off his head onto the mat and that was it. It was over.

The Black Widow started laughing. She snickered and then chortled and then started to laugh so hard, tears were springing up in her eyes. Her belly was hurting and she couldn't breathe. But he was so... so... so... mad! Standing there all manly and pink. "Ah-hah-hahh-haahh..." She gasped. "Eee-heee-heeehh..."

She couldn't breath. She was practically pounding the mat with her fists she was laughing so hard.

"Oh, sure, it's funny to you," she heard grumbled above her. "You're not pink."

"Ah-hah-hahh-haahh..." She rolled onto her back, gasping for air. She blinked rapidly and stared up at the Hawk through watery eyes, only to see him look at her with a little less rage on his face and the corners of his mouth starting to twitch. And then he set a pink hand on his pink hip and it slipped off thanks to the goo and she laughed harder. And dammit if he didn't give up and grin as well.

"Yeah, yeah, fine," he said, reluctantly grinning at her. Natasha tried desperately to catch her breath. "I still don't have clothes, and I'm freakin' pink."

She laid on her back and tried to get herself back together. Everyone was staring, and she wasn't sure if it was from the pink fool in front of her, or because the Black Widow had just been rolling on the ground laughing. Literally. "I think I have some extra stuff you can borrow," she finally managed.

"I'm not wearing a bra, Natasha," Barton grumbled.

Still grinning madly, she rolled up to her knees and reached over to pull her gym bag to her. "Here," she said, pulling out a couple of items. "Mens. Shorts and a shirt." She held up the baggy gym shorts and large gray flannel shirt. "I'll just... hold them for you until you shower again." Her mouth twitched.

"Yeah, you do that," Barton grumbled. Then he gave her a funny look. "Where'd you get men's clothes?"

She grinned back at him. "I might have stopped by Coulson's room earlier," she said sweetly.

Barton blinked, presumably to keep the pink goo out of his eyes, and then grinned. Big. A white slash against that Pepto face. "Tasha, if I wasn't covered in this crap, I'd hug you," he said gleefully. "I'll be back. Don't go anywhere with those."

"I"ll toss them into you in a few minutes," she called after his (pink) retreating back as her partner squelched his way back to the men's locker rooms. She snickered quietly again as the door swung shut. After all, who knew if Coulson had rigged the other showheads?

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AN - Thanks for the reviews and suggestions! Keep them coming, and I'll keep writing. Next Chapter: Cowboy Hat.


	3. Chapter 3 Cowboy Hat

Cowboy Hat

Chicago was gritty, cold and more than a little depressing. Early spring was not the friend of the American Midwest, Natasha thought for what had to be the twelfth time in the last hour. She was trapped in skimpy clothes, playing a high-cost call-girl, while the weather blew cold, wet air up her mini-skirt. Next time, she was going to insist on college student. At least then she could have been wrapped up in a scarf and jeans.

Meanwhile, her partner was bundled up while he hung out on rooftops. Sure, sure, he was out in the elements, but the man was never cold. Honestly. It was completely unfair that his internal thermometer was set to a vastly different temperature than hers. He sat around in jeans and a jacket and was perfectly happy, while she longed for those Russian furs she had in storage in her safe house in Minsk. And wool socks. Wool socks would be _great_ right now.

Thank goodness she was done for the day, her mark was having dinner with his wife and surveillance had been handed off to the back-up team for the night. She was going to crawl into the shower, blast the water as hot as it would go, and then put on every item of clothing she owned. Maybe she'd steal Barton's, too. The man would grumble but let her take whatever she wanted. He was... nice... like that.

Shivering, Natasha turned her key in the door of the low-rent apartment she was staying in and pushed her way into the warm room. Barton must have beat her back, the heat was already on and running. Thank god.

"Barton," she called, shutting and locking the door behind her.

"I got take-out," he called back from the direction of the tiny kitchen. Rubbing her cold hands together, Natasha headed for the sound of his voice. Her partner was standing in the kitchen, pulling styrofoam containers out of a paper bag. In his bare feet.

She narrowed her eyes briefly at him, then eyed the containers. "Chinese?" she asked.

He held up a container. "Wonton soup," he said with a grin. "Thought you'd need it after freezing your ass off all day. What'd the guy think, it was sexy to drag a woman around in the cold for hours at a time?"

Natasha nearly melted in gratitude. Not that she would do that. She was the Black Widow, and she didn't do gooey or grateful or anything like that. Even if her partner had soup after a cold day. "I'm going to take a shower first," she said, instead. "You eat, I'll be back."

"I think you're out of socks," he called after her as she headed for the bathroom. "Steal some of mine."

As Natasha shut the bathroom door and started the hot water, she was contemplating the man on the other side. Nearly two years, a whole two years they'd been partners. That was a long time for someone like her. The room started to fill with steam and she leisurely began to strip off her clothes. The longest she'd worked with anyone before the Hawk had been... well, she didn't like to remember that. It hadn't ended well, and was just another mark in her ledger.

She stepped into the scalding hot spray and sighed in relief. Oh yes. Was there really anything better than a hot shower after a cold day? She let the heat and steam envelop her, let her eyes close as her hands rested against the side of the little shower stall and the hot water beat down on her back. She could feel the kinks and aches and the tightness start to ease away.

More, she could feel the vague sense of dirtyness start to ease. The Black Widow might be brilliant as these kinds of jobs, but it didn't mean she liked them. Well, aside from the amusement factor of making these stupid men jump at her every whim. That was always fun. Too bad this mark wasn't at that state yet, or she'd have had him tuck her up inside with a blanket and a cup of hot chocolate. With marshmallows.

Natasha slowly ran through the routine of washing her hair, her face, her body. She was in no hurry, and the water heater, thank God, was a good one. Barton was probably done eating and already amusing himself somehow. She finally gave up on the shower and turned the water off, wrapping herself in the skimpy towel and rubbing dry. She thought about dragging the hairdryer out and taking care of the wet mess on her head, and then decided it was too much work. The other team had the mark. The heat was on, she had warm clothes and soup waiting for her. She left it damp and pulled back.

She pulled on socks that were far too big for her feet, clean underwear, her own black sweats and a long-sleeve black tee. Then she opened the bathroom door and padded to the bedroom, rooting around in her gear until she found the pull-over she'd stashed when told the mission was in Chicago. Windy City. Yuck.

Warm, clean, and now hungry, she headed for the kitchen again. Barton wasn't in sight, but she could see the second bedroom had the door partially open. She could hear the sounds of his guitar through the open door.

As Natasha opened her soup, the hot, fragrant smell making her mouth water, she heard him singing softly. She'd never, ever, _ever_ tell him, but her partner had a very appealing singing voice. Warm, just a little rough, it was something she had to admit privately that she liked. Even when he was singing in her ear while she was working a mark. She sipped her first spoonful of soup.

_"Desperado, why don't you come to your senses,_

_You been out riding fences for so long, now, _

_Oh, you're a hard one, _

_But I know that you got your reasons._

_These things that are pleasing you, _

_Will hurt you somehow."_

She knew this song. Even in Russia, she'd gotten bits and pieces of American culture fed to her so that she could blend and assimilate. This one, it was about a cowboy, something that was so blatantly American that her handlers had deemed it worth spending valuable training time learning.

_"Don't you draw the queen of diamonds, boy, _

_She'll beat you if she's able. _

_You know the queen of hearts is always your best friend. _

_It seems to me some fine things have been laid upon your table._

_But you only want the ones you can't get..."_

The soup was warm, so was her partner's voice. The slightly melancholy song, one she'd never fully understood but always found somehow appealing, it was all so... soothing, she guessed. It was something that made her insides soften and ease and sent a frisson of nerves through her. She didn't want to feel anything like that. The Black Widow didn't have friends. Lovers. Family. She was alone, and was someone who thrived alone. Soup and a song wasn't going to change that.

_"Desperado..."_

Taking her soup, Natasha retreated to her own bedroom and quietly shut the door.

Yet somehow the next day, roaming around the shops giggling and playing devoted (paid) lover to a balding arms dealer with bad teeth, she spied a hat in the window. And she couldn't say what, but something made her buy it. A cowboy hat. Black, plain, unobtrusive. It was a men's hat, and she'd had to play it off to the mark as "Oh, don't I look so cute, only _this_ one will do..."

But she'd bought it, and that night when her partner was in the shower, she'd laid it on his bed before retreated to her own room and closing the door. She could hear him singing in the shower, the words muffled and the tune indistinct. Natasha slipped her sock-covered feet under the blankets and huddled down, soaking in the warmth.

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AN - For Precious93. Keep the ideas coming!


	4. Chapter 4 Blue High Heels

Blue High Heels

Three fuckin' years of being partners, and this was how he was stuck spending the evening. Clint was not happy. After all, not a lot of SHIELD agents made it to the multi-year mark. Sanchez and Fuller, over in Weapons Development, they had the current record. Five years and counting. Frankly, Clint was of the opinion that he and Natasha should have gotten to do something a little nicer than this.

"This", of course, was the op they were currently stuck in. The one where he was the inside man and the Black Widow was the backup. It was weird. He didn't like it. She didn't like it. Coulson, as a result, didn't like it. But the damn drug runner was a woman, with a brother who had a thing for the ponies and a phobia of other women. That meant Natasha's skills were next to useless as someone undercover and he was sent in as the sacrificial lamb. And considering the way Alia Roderiguez had been eyeing him recently, he just might get to feel how that damn lamb really felt.

Clint swallowed another mouthful of beer and stayed where he was against the bar. "Jesus, how much longer," he muttered.

"You act like you've never gone under before," the Black Widow came in his ear. "Stop whining like a little girl."

"I'd say 'you should know', except I'm not sure you ever _were_ a little girl," he muttered back, bottle blocking his lips from the rest of the room.

"Ha, ha," she shot back without heat. "Coulson says we're nearly there. Ten more minutes, and the B-team will have the safe open."

"Well, Jesus, tell them to get a move on. I'm not sure Alia's going to wait another ten to demand I show her what kind of a man I am." He hunched a little more, trying to stay out of the criminal boss' line of sight. The woman was a man-eater, and not in a good way. He had no desire to be forced into bed and then have his dick cut off if he didn't satisfy. Which, considering how little attraction the admittedly good-looking Latino woman held for him, was probably a forgone conclusion. "You'd get me out of there, right? BEFORE she gets her hands on me?"

There was humming in his ear. "Nat? Natasha? SO not funny," he growled back. "Might I remind you of Cannes, and that guy with the manicure?"

There was a snort. "As I recall, I had that under control. YOU were the one who decided I needed a hand. So to speak."

"Better my hand than his," Clint muttered and hastily drank his beer again. Crap. Brother was coming his way.

"Marco!" Juan Rodriguez was clearly pushing drunk. "Why you hiding in the corner, man? We got a game going."

Clint smiled easily and raised his beer. "Not fair to the rest of you if I'm not a little drunk first," he drawled, playing up the accent. Juan seemed to trust the accent.

Juan bellowed a laugh and turned to order another beer, calling the barkeep and banging his fist on the bar for emphasis.

"Do you want me to start singing?" the dry voice of his partner came. "This is usually where you are at your most distracting. I believe I know a tune or two in Spanish. Let me see..."

He nearly spit out his mouthful of beer and had to really fight not to react at all when her voice came all husky and warm in his ear. "_De la Sierra Morena, Cielito lindo, vienen bajando, Un par de ojitos negros, Cielito lindo, de contrabando_." Holy crap. It was like listening to liquid sex. Smoky, warm and husky, her voice was caressing the words of the simple folk tune like a lover running her hand down her man's back. It made his whole body tighten.

Juan was turning back to him and holding out another beer. "Marco, drink up!" the other man urged, chugging some of his own beer back. Clint took the beer almost gratefully.

"_Ay, ay, ay, ay, Canta y no llores,_" Natasha was definitely in a mood right now. Christ. He'd bet she was doing this on purpose. He knew that song wasn't supposed to sound so damn sexy. And what the hell? Since when did his partner, someone he'd spent waaaaayyy too long trying to pretend was sexless, start using her feminine whiles against him?_ "Porque cantando se alegran, Cielito lindo, los corazones_." Apparently since now.

"Not drunk enough yet," Clint drawled back at Juan. The other guy finally, _finally_, took the hint and left him alone. "Christ, Nat, how much longer?" he hissed behind his bottle.

"Coulson says they've got the goods. I'm coming in to get you out, be ready," she finally said after a very, very long few seconds. Alia was starting to get up and head in his direction. Dammit.

"Wait, what..." he started, but then she walked in the door. And the whole damn place went silent.

Well, hell, it was no wonder. When a smokin' hot redhead like Natasha Romanoff walks into a bar, wearing a scrap of a skirt and a white blouse that seemed to fall off her shoulders more than it stayed on, you paid attention. Didn't matter if you were a guy or a girl, you paid attention. Even Alia had changed direction. Now she was heading for the competition, as she probably saw it. Poor Alia.

"Oh, shit," he muttered, and could all but hear his partner's smirk.

"Sorry, boys," she announced in a clear, cool voice, sauntering one hip at a time into the room. She stopped, cocked a hip and posed there, surrounded by dumfounded and staring men. And one irritated woman. "Party's over." Shit, she was wearing heels. Electric blue heels that made her legs look twelve miles of perfection long.

"You! Out!" Alia wasn't taking this threat to her turf lightly. "Domino! Juan! Get her out!" The drug-running bitch, yes, bitch, you could all but see the claws, Clint thought, she preferred her little world of being the only queen.

The Black Widow looked bored and examined her nails. "Please. Bring it, bitch." Clint set down his beer and took a breath. And of course, it was just in time.

All hell broke loose a second later as bodies started flying, chairs started breaking, heads started cracking. Clint ducked and wove and started taking them down from his place in the back, working his way toward his partner. Dammit, she just loved to make a mess, didn't she?

"Hell of a way to celebrate three years together," he grumbled into the com. The guy he had in a headlock finally went down and he ducked, avoiding a beer bottle to the head. "A bar brawl? Really? We could've had cake or something."

"Who says we don't have cake? Coulson was in charge of the cake," Natasha's voice in his ear, from about fifteen feet and twelve meatheads away said. "I'm in charge of the entertainment."

"Thanks," he grumbled. He cracked a broken chair leg against one skull, the back of a leg, another's lower back. Clint kicked out with his right foot, then spun and punched a one-two combo, wincing at the toughness of the other guy's skull.

He came up against Natasha's back. "Nice shoes, by the way," he said. She ducked and he grabbed the fist that sailed over her head, sending the grunt flying over his own shoulder. At the same time, he leaned left and Natasha swept a long, slim leg with one of those killer heels out and practically impaled the dude who was trying to come up with a knife on his right.

"I wore them just for the occasion," she said, twisting sideways and impaling an elbow into another guy's throat. He gurgled a second before going down. Clint braced but no one else rushed at them. He looked around.

"Huh," he said. "Well, that was quick."

Natasha was smoothing her hands over her hips, straightening her skirt. "Coulson? Go ahead and send the team in," she said, before looking over at Clint. "Well, there you have it. Mission over, drug runners arrested and I'm going to go take a bath."

Clint blinked. She was walking away, long and slow and one hip at a time. Was she... nah. Nope. Not a chance. "Not even a drink?" he called after her as the place started to fill with SHIELD agents. Alia was already in cuffs, sporting a lovely shiner that he was pretty sure one of her own guys gave her by accident. "Three years! We're in something like, second place!"

A wave was all he got, a wave and those legs and then the door swung shut. Clint sighed and flexed his hands before following. Guess he might as well head in, too.

That night, he dreamed. Not the usual dreams of blood and guilt and bodies and pain, but one that was soft and warm and made his stomach tremble. Pale skin bathed in moonlight, shadows and secrets and scents that shivered inside him. Soft moans and hard touches, heat and dampness and the smell of sweat and musk. Clint woke with a raging hard-on and a racing heart and the absolute knowledge that he'd better never let his partner know what his sleeping brain had conjured up for him on their three-year anniversary. Not if he wanted to see their fourth.

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AN - Still looking for more good ideas... Thanks for the reviews! Keep 'em coming!

Next Chapter: Clint's SHIELD Jacket.


	5. Chapter 5 Clint's SHIELD Jacket

Clint's SHIELD Jacket

It was funny how these things went FUBAR so quickly. One minute, she and Barton were chatting up the Under-Secretary of Labor from Portugal in the hopes of getting him to slip up and give them his daughter-in-law's name, and the next they were ducking bullets and sliding down banisters while trying not to destroy a truly fabulous Armani gown. Well, at least she was.

"Come _on_, Widow!" The Hawk was not feeling all to patient with her concern for fashion. It wasn't like he spent a lot of time in designer clothes, after all. No, SHE was the one who did the undercover work, and dammit, she knew the value of a good dress. And this one was one of her best. Dammed if she wasn't going to try and keep it intact.

RIP! Natasha cursed, fluently and in several languages before reaching around and snapping the neck of the unfortunate meathead who'd ripped the dress in question. "Вы глупые крестьянские!" She shot him in the head, just for good measure. "This was Armani!"

"Yeah, yeah, and you look smoking hot in it, can we please leave now?" Barton was not feeling her pain. Of course, he might have a point, he was currently occupied with three other goons while she was venting her irritation on the one already dead guard. She glanced down the hall and saw the cluster of men with guns coming toward them at a trot.

"Aren't you done yet?" she demanded, jumping in and lending an elbow or two. "We've got company, and this dress is ruined."

"Oh, well, in that case..." her partner shot back sarcastically. "Crap!" He ducked a round of gunfire, yanking her with him around a corner. "What do you think, window or door?"

The window in question behind them shattered from a round of bullets. "Window," Natasha declared. She was fairly sure it looked over the river. Well, mostly sure.

"Right, on three," Hawkeye said. "One, two, three!" The two of them shot through the shattered glass like a pair of dancers, rolling and twisting and thank god diving into the dark river below.

The cold water was a shock to the system, almost paralyzing in its impact, and Natasha had to peer through the inky gloom of water to see which way was up. She surfaced briefly, gasping for air and spotted her partner's head doing the same a few feet away. He caught her eyes, nodded once, and they went under again.

It was a cold, dark swim to the other bank, and they'd had to pick a spot that was shielded and out of sight to surface. That meant the bank was difficult to climb, particularly in ice-pick shoes and a ripped Armani dress. Natasha followed Barton up the bank, one handhold at a time, shivering violently and unable to stop the tremors. Fuck, it was cold. At least he had his suit. Wet or not, the light wool weave would trap the heat of his body and keep him warmer. She just had a lot of bare skin.

"Come on," his voice came in her ear, almost making her jump. Shit. How had she lost focus like that? Natasha gave a slight shake of her head, trying to clear the cobwebs. She was so cold. And tired. Dammit.

"Wait..." she got out before she staggered a little. Hawkeye was at her side before she caught her balance.

"Fuck, Nat, you got shot, didn't you?" His hands were at least warmer than her skin as he pulled at the side of her dress. "Dammit. Bullet's still in. We've got to get to the safe house and get you patched up." His hand was warm on her elbow. "Come on."

Natasha drew herself together. Bah. A gunshot wound. She could handle it. "Right. Let's go," she said and they headed into the trees along the bank. If she was a little slower than she might have been normally, he didn't say anything. And if he seemed to keep one hand on her arm, shoulder, back, at all times, she didn't say anything either.

Either way, it was a long and serpentine route back to their safe house. His tie had been pressed into service as a bandage, and his jacket had made it around her shoulders to hid the rips and bloodstains in her dress by the time they made it there. She was shivering violently, unable to control it anymore by the time they got through the door and into the secured building.

Barton had apparently had enough and as soon as the lock clicked behind them, he was scooping her up and depositing her on one of the couches. She didn't bother to protest, the Hawk was rather protective when she got hurt. Particularly, she'd noticed, since Paris. Her ankle was still a little weaker than she'd like, and she supposed that it was a good thing she'd not rolled it in the excitement that evening. Natasha leaned her head back against the back of the couch and waited.

He was back in a moment, med kit in his hands, as well as an armload of other stuff. It all got dropped on the table in front of her. "Right, let's get this bullet out," Clint said, not looking happy. Natasha sighed and obligingly rolled to lie on her side, wincing. At least it was warm in here. He draped a blanket over her legs and tucked a couple of towels around her torso. Oh, god, that felt good. Warmth.

"This is gonna hurt," he said, unnecessarily, before he started cutting away the damaged fabric of her formerly fabulous dress from the bullet wound. She didn't think it was deep, but the bullet was still there, and so she gritted her teeth and waited for the pain. It came, of course, sharp and hard and burning as Clint carefully pulled the rough edges of her flesh apart and extracted the metal left behind. She closed her eyes against it as he disinfected and then as delicately as possible started to stitch her back together. At least he was good at stitches, she thought a little hazily. Tiny little ones that faded away with less of a scar. Not like the big ropy ones she'd had to do on her own too many times before.

The tug and pull on her skin was keeping her awake, the pain preventing the chill from taking over her body and the silence was letting her mind wander. Memories, unbidden and unwelcome. Other rooms, other wounds and other hands, not as gentle or as careful as Clint's. Other beatings, shootings. Other blood. The back of her eyelids burned with the images as he knotted off the stitches and she felt the careful snip of scissors.

"There," his voice broke through her haze and she opened her eyes, pushing back against the thoughts. Tonight would not be a pleasant sleep. "Whoa, slower, Nat," he said, hands guiding and lifting her as she went to sit up. "Don't pop the stitches just as soon as I've put them in."

"I'm fine," she said, keeping her voice as steady as she could. "I've had worse, you know that."

"Humor me," he said as she sat there, blanket draped over her legs, ruined dress still soggy on her body. He was kneeling by the sofa, hands still stained with her blood and his wet shirt clinging to his body. She looked at him, her partner of more than three years, and... she felt something. It wasn't something she understood or knew or even necessarily was sure she liked. But his eyes were serious and watchful, and his hands were steady and warm and his face intent on her and only her. And she knew that if he didn't step back very soon, the chances were good that something stupid would happen on her part.

"I need to get out of these clothes," she said, pushing the blanket and by extension, him, away and making to stand up. "Change, and we'll call it in."

He was still there as she stood and made her careful way around the couch toward her room. "Go easy on those stitches," he warned her again as she made her way out of the room. His voice was like rubbing something soft against over-sensitized nerves. Natasha didn't answer him, just closed the door quietly behind her.

It took a few minutes more than she'd have liked, but she got out of the ruins of her dress and into clean, dry underwear and sweats. She cursed herself for not bringing more layers to wrap up in, as her skin was still chilled to the touch from the icy river. Her hair, she managed to drag a comb through and towel dry.

Clint was out on the sofa again, laptop out and Coulson already on video chat by the time she opened the door. The two men were clearly in the middle of something when Clint glanced up and saw her. He cut off the other man with a frown, before grabbing a garment from the back of the couch.

"I figured you didn't have a sweatshirt or anything with you," her partner said as she came over and sat next to him by the laptop. He dropped his SHIELD coat around her shoulders, the one he wore when he sat on rooftops and watched the world through his scope. He tugged the lapels close, pulling the garment around her snuggly.

It was warm, lined with something soft and smelled of leather and sweat and glue. Natasha gave him a short nod, and his fingers lingered a moment longer, holding the coat closed before her own came up to take the lapels from him. Then his warm hands slid away, brushing over her cold fingers as he turned back to the screen in front of them.

As Clint and Coulson debated the fuckup that was that evening, Natasha listened and analyzed and helped calculate scenarios. Her fingers and toes stopped aching with cold, and her hair dried. All the while the three of them sat and strategized, she kept the coat pulled snug against her and let the scent fill one corner of her brain. Just a corner.

* * *

AN - For KBAMilne. These stories tie loosely into my "Dresser Drawers" series, in case you wondered. Keep those reviews and suggestions coming! Thanks!

Next Chapter - Rainbow Toed Socks


	6. Chapter 6 RainbowToed Socks

Rainbow-Toed Socks

Clint had always liked Rio. The heat, the color, the scents... sure, it was gritty and dark and poor and kind of depressing in a lot of ways, but that tropical sun, the beach and the whole Rio thing, he really liked it.

He slung an arm around Natasha's shoulders as they strolled with the mass of people. And right now, this was the best time to be in Rio. Carnival! "Awesome," he said out loud, grinning as yet another over-the-top costume went by.

"You're like a child," his partner grumbled loudly. She had to grumble loudly, the street wasn't exactly quiet.

"Yeah, yeah, you've said," Clint shot back without heat. "Come on, Nat, this is great! Well, if we didn't have to kill anyone, it'd be great. It's practically a vacation." He slowed down a step or two as one of the many, many food booths caught his eye.

"No," Natasha said very clearly and distinctly. "Work first. Stomach last."

"Meanie," Clint said as she tugged him forward. Technically, they were trailing the mark, yet another drug dealer extraordinaire, through the crowd. He craned his neck, trying to mark the spot of that particular meat pie booth. He was definitely coming back later.

Around them, people teemed and laughed and danced. Music blared and liquor was flowing like water. Yes, he really liked Carnival. It was a no-holds-bared party, and damn, but he'd like to be here for another reason. You know. Other than the killing someone part.

A Brazilian hottie in what looked like dental floss and a couple of flowers pranced by them, cooing at him. "Olá, bonito, quer dançar?" God, he really loved Rio.

Natasha sent the woman flitting away with no more than a raised eyebrow. "What, am I all of a sudden invisible?" his partner muttered as Clint admired the scantily covered rear end as it disappeared into the masses of people.

"Nah, but you're kind of overdressed for this crowd, Nat," Clint grinned.

"Shut up. Follow the drug dealer," he was ordered in a fairly irritated tone.

Clint snagged a huge, floppy hat that was covered in flowers off the back of a stand without the dealer being any the wiser. He plopped it onto Natasha's unsuspecting head. "There," he grinned at her as she glared from under the brim. "Now you blend in."

"You're a moron," was all he got back. But he did notice that the hat stayed on.

In fact, the hat stayed on the whole time they trailed the dealer through the celebrating crowds, into the darkened courtyard of the house of the main streets, and even during the quick one-two taps of the silenced gunshots. Yep. Easy. Over.

Back out on the street, Clint shifted his shoulders and made a grab for Natasha's hand. "Food!" he said gleefully.

"You are, aren't you? You're a child," was what he got back as he started dragging her through the throngs. "I want alcohol."

"Food first, then booze. Man, I really love Rio. This has got the be the best assignment ever..." Clint was trying to find that meat pie stand. It wasn't easy with the mess of people blocking their way. Half naked, covered in bizarre and amazing costumes, and now that it was getting later in the evening and the liquor was flowing, lots and lots of amorous affection. There was loud music from all directions, laughter and an over-abundance of feathers.

And then, the parade started. The crowds started pressing back toward the sidewalks, clearing the street as the floats were heard coming around the corner. Clint hung on to Natasha's hand and pulled her tighter toward him as the crowd tried to press them apart.

"Parade!" he shouted down at her, not caring it he was grinning like an idiot. Which he was pretty sure he was. "Come on, can you see? This is gonna be great!"

Whatever she said back was lost in the noise and music as the first float turned the corner. The roar of the people got bigger and beads were tossed and candy thrown and people screamed and laughed and reached for the flying prizes as they were flung. Clint managed to find a curb and pulled Natasha up in front of him, tucking her smaller body in front of him. He hoped she could see, he had only about a head over most of the crowd. He forgot, sometimes, just how small the Black Widow really was.

Float after float came rolling by, filled with noise and music and candy and beads. Feathers and costumes and color were everywhere. Clint tried to catch some beads and nearly fell off his perch on the curb, Natasha swatting him back and shouting something at him that seemed fairly good-humored, if the look on her face was anything to go by. He grinned back at her, loving how the lights of the city sparkled in her eyes, how her hair shone under the glare of the streetlights.

Something soft hit him upside the head, and Natasha unexpectedly laughed, eyes crinkling and mouth curling in delight. Clint had to fumble to catch whatever it was, and laughed himself when he saw that he'd caught a pair of socks. Rainbow-toed socks. His eyes met hers and he could almost feel the warmth that spread between them as they shared the moment of humor.

Later, he'd give her the socks, claiming they'd never fit his feet and she always needed more socks on missions anyway. She'd take them, scoffing at the colors and swearing she'd never wear them. And when she packed for her long undercover with Stark, he'd see the edge of them peeking up from inside her duffle.

* * *

AN - For Precious93.

Next Chapter - Black Velvet Choker


	7. Chapter 7 Black Velvet Choker

Black Velvet Choker

Clint had reached his limit. No more scientists, no more sitting around twiddling his thumbs. There was only so many times he could polish his bow. So to speak.

Coulson might claim that he needed Clint's assistance setting up the new New Mexico base, but frankly Clint could've been gone a week ago and no one would have noticed. He figured they were just keeping him on since Natasha was still under with Stark Enterprises. It wasn't like their dynamic duo was available to go off on some kind of an interesting mission together. Ever since Thor had left, things had just been boring. Boh-ring.

So he'd hunted up Coulson, told him that if he saw another scientist in the next six hours he might stick an arrow in his own eye, and that he was taking the day off. Coulson had raised an eyebrow, told him not to get into trouble and to make sure he brought the SHIELD car he was planning on appropriating back in one piece, with gas in the tank, thank you very much, and had sent him off.

For the first couple of hours, Clint had just driven. Long, empty, straight roads with desert rolling off in all directions. It relaxed him almost has much as some good hand-to-hand combat would've. THAT was something else he was getting twitchy about, there was no one to freakin' spar with. A guy could only go so long without beating the crap out of someone, and all those stupid scientists were wusses. Coulson was too smart to get on the mats with Clint, and someone had tipped off the other agents assigned to New Mexico. Christ, he missed Natasha.

He'd finally rolled into a town, he wasn't even sure of the name. He didn't care. It had gas, it had a diner, it had a few shops and a movie theater. It'd do to spend a few hours in. He parked the car, locked it out of habit, and making sure his back-up pieces were safely concealed, he headed down the dusty street.

Clint started with the diner. Something other than institutional food would be great, and as he pushed the door of the little restaurant in he couldn't help but grin. He could almost taste the grease already.

A waitress with a bad dye job waved at him. "Pick a seat, hon," she said. "Be right with you." It wasn't like the place was empty, but it wasn't exactly hopping either. Clint slid into the booth, making sure the loose button-down he was wearing over his t-shirt didn't slide and show the gun strapped to his back. He picked up the plastic-coated menu and perused it.

The waitress, wearing a nametag that said 'Nadine', came up and gave him a look up and down. "Haven't seen you before, honey," she said. "You just passing through?"

Clint smiled back. "Yeah," he said. "Just visiting your lovely town today." He glanced back down at the menu, then tossed it down on the table. "Just give me your special, whatever it is. Lots of coffee, and pie with ice cream for dessert."

Nadine scribbled on the pad. "You got it," she said. "Be 'bout five minutes. Sit tight and I'll bring your coffee."

Clint leaned back and gave her a smile in thanks, and then turned his attention to the street stretching out in front of him. There weren't exactly a lot of people wandering about, it was hot out there in the sun. Nat would've liked it, she hated being cold. Clint blew out a breath. Dammit. He had to stop obsessing about where his partner was and what she was doing.

Usually when they got separated for missions, he didn't get to hear anything about what was going on until Nat got back and told him herself. Not that she was the chattiest partner, but he usually got the highlights, and sometimes a flash or two into her psyche. Those were moments he treasured, for lack of a better word. But this mission, her gig at Stark Industries, he was starting to get a lot second-hand. Particularly since Stark had, as expected, picked her up as a replacement PA. He'd flipped on the news and seen Natasha's face in the background of some report about Stark's stupid upcoming birthday party. It had made something in him ache, and he'd changed the channel. Not until the report had been over, of course, but still...

Nadine set the coffeepot in front of him, along with a mug and cream and sugar. He gave her a slight smile, and busied himself with making a cup of coffee. Light and sweet, just the way he liked it. Nat always drank hers dark and strong, as bitter as she could stand. She'd said once that black coffee wasn't for weanies, and had given his sugar and milk filled cup a pointed look. He'd slurped up the next mouthful, grinning at her the whole time. She'd rolled her eyes and slugged him in the shoulder.

He sipped his coffee, letting his mind roam. They needed to talk at some point. Things had been changing recently, and he wasn't sure where she was going with everything. The lingerie shoot recently, the way she'd smiled in Rio, that time in Paris... She was letting him touch her, letting herself lean on him in a way she'd never before. And he wasn't complaining. He was the luckiest damn man on the planet, getting to work with Natasha Romanoff every day. Well, almost every day. He'd always figured she'd never let him get close to her, and originally he'd figured that it was better for everyone's mental and physical health if that's the way it was.

Lately, though... His food arrived, Nadine setting the plates down with a thump and a nod. Clint nodded back and proceeded to tear into some pretty decent fried chicken. Maybe SHIELD could hire the cook.

Lately, he thought as he ate, lately he'd started being aware that he felt differently. Hell, that he FELT, period. He felt something for the Black Widow, and more, for the woman behind her. He was happier when she was around. He was unhappier when she was gone. He wanted her with an ache that wrapped around his guts and squeezed, hard. He'd started dreaming about her in his bed nearly a year ago, after that time in Mexico.

And the scary but thrilling thing was he suspected she was doing something similar. It was hiding there in her eyes. The Black Widow was better than anyone else he'd ever seen at living a lie, at only letting people see what she wanted them to see, but he knew his partner. He knew the woman behind the assassin, and he was seeing something there that hadn't surfaced before.

Clint polished off the last of his green beans, and picked up the slice of pie. He'd needed this day off. He needed to have time and space to think some of these things through.

Of course, he didn't come to any great conclusions or revelations or epiphanies. Nope. Instead he went round and round in his brain like a damn toy train on a track, and only succeeded in making his pretty damn good pie disappear faster than he'd have liked. He'd paid the bill and left a hefty tip, the pie had been totally worth it.

Now he was wandering down the street, hands in his pockets, gazing aimlessly in shop windows. He'd perused the window of an electronics store, contemplating a new iPod. Nah. His old one worked fine. He'd glanced at the window of a toy store, mindlessly recognizing some classic toys and wondering when the hell everything had gone electronic. Was that all kids played with these days?

He was passing by a vintage clothing shop when his eye was actually caught by something. One of the mannequins in the window was dressed in some old brocade coat, a white shirt underneath. What caught his eye, however was the black velvet choker around the mannequin's neck. Snug, with a delicate cameo clasping the front together, it was a soft black band around the plastic neck.

Clint stopped and stared at it. Instead of the flesh-toned plastic figure, he saw porcelain skin. Red curls brushing the velvet, softly tickling the dainty carving of the cameo as it nestled in the hollow of that perfect throat. He closed his eyes and could see it all, her skin pale and shadowed, limbs loose and askew and that choker snug and soft around her neck...

Clint opened his eyes again and blew out a breath. Hah. As if. Natasha would never let him give her such a gift. And more, she'd never let him see her wearing it the way he imagined.

Still, he found himself going into the store and buying the choker. He slipped the tissue-wrapped package into his pocket and headed back down the street. He was done for the day. Somehow, all he wanted to do was go back to base and bury the small package in his pocket at the bottom of his duffle.

As Clint started the SUV and headed back down the dusty road, he suddenly smiled. Maybe he'd get Tasha drunk and then give her the choker. Or, maybe not. Either way.

* * *

AN - for Millie 1985. Thanks for the reviews and prompts! Keep them coming and I'll keep writing.

Next Chapter - Gray Fleece Pullover


	8. Chapter 8 Gray Fleece Pullover

Gray Fleece Pullover

Natasha couldn't seem to settle. She'd been running full-tilt, with a laser focus ever since she'd gotten the call. "_Agent Barton has been compromised._" Shit. She'd made short work of those idiots in Russia and gotten home as fast as she could, Banner in tow. And now she was forced to wait.

Where was he? What the hell was going on? She'd read Fury's report of the 'incident' a million times. She'd viewed the garbled footage that had survived the explosion over and over. A dozen different times she'd watched 'Loki', or whatever the asshat was calling himself, she'd watched him taunt Clint with his whole '_you have heart_' thing and then proceed to strip her partner of every part of himself that mattered. When she'd watched Hawkeye walk out of that base with his new master, she hadn't recognized him. The man she knew was missing.

It wasn't even his walk anymore. She knew the way he moved, the way he fought. And something was just off, now. Fury'd reported that Barton had shot him in the chest. That told her more than perhaps anything. Clint was a sniper. And he didn't miss.

She paced the small confines of her room on the helicarrier, socked feet silent on the bare floor. She'd dressed for bed, trying to force herself to carry on as if nothing had happened. They were waiting for intel on Loki, on where the hell he'd gone and where he was going to surface. Coulson wasn't sleeping, she knew. He'd refuse sleep until he had his agent back, all the way back.

She paced again, and rubbed her arms through the sleeves of her gray fleece pullover. She wasn't much better. Logically, she knew she needed sleep to keep in top form. She knew that something was going to go down soon, that at some point Loki was going to surface and the facial recognition software would locate him and she'd have to go. But in the meantime her stomach was churning and her brain wouldn't shut down and if she didn't know better she'd say she was feeling sick.

Natasha blew out a breath and let herself have a moment of weakness in the safety of her quarters. She scrubbed her hands over her face, then shoved them back through her hair, giving a tug in frustration. She dropped down to sit on the edge of the bed and rested her chin on her clasped hands.

"Where are you, Clint?" she said aloud, softly. Dammit. She couldn't get him out if she didn't know where he was. And she KNEW, she just knew he was still in there somewhere. He'd missed the head shot. His walk was a little off.

She swiveled and laid back on the bed, resting her hands on her stomach and breathing out slowly. Sleep. She needed sleep. Natasha closed her eyes and forced herself to turn off, slow down, and recharge. She'd need it.

* * *

It was later, so much later than she'd thought. She hadn't slept since they'd found Loki in Germany. There'd been too much to do, too much to figure out and plan and strategize. She was slated to interrogate Loki in a few minutes, and frankly that was preferable to dealing with Stark again. God, that man pissed her off faster than anyone she'd ever met. Thor, he'd been all right. A little too noble for her tastes, but she'd seen the kindred spirit of a fighter in him. He'd probably be a good man in a fight, particularly with his apparently magic hammer. Banner, he was holding on. She was still leery of him. And the Captain? The jury was still out on him. Good fighter, but was he just too naive to be any use? Coulson didn't think so. She wasn't so sure.

Natasha sighed and paced her quarters, trying to settle her mind. She had to get this right. Not only the world, apparently, but also her partner's continued survival rested on her ability to get what she needed out of Loki. Dropping down to sit on the edge of the bed, she shoved her pullover out of the way. She'd left it there, rather uncharacteristically messy, when they'd gotten the call to head to Germany.

Briefly, her fingers closed and tightened on the soft fabric. In Russia, she'd never had to deal with all this. This worry, this emotion, this... _caring_. Hell, not even this fabric. She snorted and rubbed the sleeve with her fingers absently. It was soft, warm, in a shade that was plain and unobtrusive. It was the color of Clint's eyes, and like his eyes, was deceptive. She'd had wool and linen and silk and cotton and even spandex in Russia, but not fleece. It had been a Western invention, and Mother Russia hadn't approved. At least not until after she'd left.

Clint had been wearing fleece when she met him. Not when he'd held an arrow to her heart and asked if she wanted a job, no, but before that. When she'd spotted her tail in the marketplace and hadn't been able to loose him without bribing a shopkeeper. He'd worn a fleece against the unexpected nip in the air, the unseasonable cold.

Natasha shook her head abruptly. She was being maudlin and weak and ridiculous. She had a prisoner to interrogate, a partner to find and a war to win. She had no time for this.

Breathing in, she centered herself, digging deep and finding that center of calm, that mask she could pull on. Loki. She needed to think about Loki now.

Setting the fleece to one side, the Black Widow stood and checked her weapons. It was time.

* * *

AN - Loving the reviews! Your prompts and suggestions are giving me lots and lots of ideas... keep 'em coming!

Next Chapter: Boxer Shorts


	9. Chapter 9 Boxer Shorts

Boxer Shorts

Clint softly closed the door shut behind him and walked, well, hobbled to the remains of the sofa in the middle of the shadowed room. It was late, it was dark, and the rest of the Avengers were asleep in the rooms Tony had so generously offered after dragging them all to shawarma. Natasha was passed out, thoroughly bandaged and hopefully full of painkillers. He'd seen the bruises and the energy burns. He'd put some of them there himself.

He was dead tired, and was pretty sure that if he stopped moving he'd fall asleep. Loki hadn't been big on letting his minions eat or sleep. The shawarma had nearly made him sick, he'd been so hungry. Days without sleep hadn't helped his stomach, and Clint was counting himself lucky that he'd kept the food down.

He was bandaged up himself, stitches and cuts and bruises and dislocated finger and all. Natasha had glared at him into taking painkillers, good strong ones. He'd palmed them, however, slipping them past her watchful eye. He wasn't ready to give away the pain quite yet.

Clint eased himself onto the wrecked sofa and stared blankly into the remains of the formerly lovely room. There was still a Loki-shaped hole in the floor from the Hulk.

This... destruction. The ruins outside of the city. The damage to the helicarrier, the agents who'd died. Phil. It was his fault. His damn fault. He'd let that son of a bitch into his head and hadn't gotten him out. Loki'd used his own hands, his body and his knowledge to destroy everything he'd worked so hard for so many years to build. The trust of SHIELD. His handler. Phil had been... family. And his family was gone now, maybe not directly by his hand but as good as.

Clint turned his eyes to the night sky. He didn't deserve to be sitting here. He'd been prepared, even a little eager to turn himself in to Fury and the MP's. The others hadn't felt the same, to the point of Nat slugging him in the jaw not-so-gently and telling him to get off his pity party and realize it wasn't his fault.

Hah. He snorted, the sound seeming loud and echoing in the empty space. A faint breeze blew through the broken windows and made torn fabric rustle. It _was_ his fault. His fault that Phil was dead. If he hadn't been so weak, Loki never would have made it out of that glass cage. Never would have been running around loose on a damaged ship and never would have shot Phil. Phil had died, and for what? Loki was still alive and kicking. Sure, he was under lock and key again, and Thor was standing guard until tomorrow when the two would return to their world, but Clint didn't even had the vindication of ending his captor's life.

He dropped his aching head into his hands and gently rubbed his burning eyes. He was afraid to sleep. His body craved it, begged for it, but as soon as he gave in, Clint knew he was going to relive every moment under Loki's control over and over again. Shooting Fury, trying to run Hill off the road. Breaking into the facility in Germany, blowing up part of the helicarrier. God, trying to kill Natasha.

Every second of that fight was seared into his brain. Every second, every strike and hit. Every time he'd lashed out with that knife, every little bit of it, he could remember. And he could remember screaming in horror on the inside, beating against the walls of his own mind. He'd been trapped, caged in his own body and completely without control as his hands tried to end the life of the person most important in the world to him.

There was a noise from the doorway, and Clint's head shot up. Please, not Natasha.

Instead, his eyes picked out the tall shape of Rogers. Captain freakin' America. Phil's goddamn hero.

"Barton," Rogers said.

"Yeah," he grunted back.

"What the hell are you doing out of bed?" Rogers asked. "You're as banged up as any of us, probably more, and you need sleep."

"Thanks, Captain, but I'm fine. No need to babysit me," Clint bit off. He didn't want to hear any platitudes. Mr. Super Soldier could just take his well-wishes and fuck off.

"Are you as dumb as you look?" The Captain was walking toward him, boots crunching over broken glass. Clint shot him a warning look in the dark. He wasn't in the mood to play nice. "I get it, you know."

"Get what?" Dammit, but this was exactly what he _didn't_ want to have right now. Conversation. He was suffocating, drowning in the pain and the guilt and misery, and conversation was just another weight on his shoulders.

The Captain lowered himself onto one of the other broken sofas. "I get that feeling you've got. The one where it's your fault that everything went FUBAR."

"Yeah, problem is, Rogers, you were always a good little soldier. Didn't exactly start killing your own guys, now, did you?" Clint was staring out the broken windows and he just wanted the other guy to go away. Leave him alone, and let him drown.

"Right. I was such a good soldier, I took my best friend, my brother, the one guy that always, _always_ had my back into a fight that there was no way he could win. And what'd he do? The dimwit died for me." Clint glanced over at Rogers. He was staring out the windows with a rather lost look on his face.

Clint shifted a little uncomfortable. Fuck, he was tired and aching. "I've read the files, Rogers. You didn't do anything wrong."

The Captain smiled, quick and sharp. "My brother's still dead, and I couldn't stop it. I was in the fucking train car with him, and still couldn't stop it." He shook his head. "I'll carry that guilt until I'm dead, too."

Clint sat in silence. What could you say to that? There were no words. Yet something eased a little in his chest, the knowledge that someone else got it, someone else understood the sickness that crawled through him at what he'd done.

"Your friend, Coulson, he died. Your partner got hurt. _I get it_, Barton. I really do." Rogers sighed, long and deep. "But I hate to break it to you, but war is fucked up. And the wrong people get hurt, and they die and nothing you can do will ever fix it. And the sooner you realize that, the easier you'll sleep at night."

Clint leaned his head back against the sofa back. "I haven't slept since New Mexico," he finally said. "Not sure I want to."

Rogers smiled a little, just a brief flash of white in the dark. "I relive going into the water every night," he said. "Every damn night, Peggy's voice in my ear and then the shock of that cold water, knowing that was it, the end. And if it's not the water, it's the train."

Clint rubbed his hands over his face again. "I've got too many to choose from already," he said. "And now..." he let his voice die off and just shook his head.

They were quiet a long time before Rogers finally spoke again. "Courage isn't the absence of fear, you know," the Captain said. His voice was soft and deep in the stillness of the dark room. "It's going through, fear be damned. And you, Barton," the other man sat forward, eyes intent on him, "You've got courage. In spades. So why are you hiding up here?"

"Loki said I had heart," Clint said softly. He hadn't meant to say that.

Rogers sighed. "Heart. That's hard to keep, in this line of work. It's a weakness to some, I bet your partner would tell you that." Clint shrugged. Sure, Nat had her little phrases and sayings and things left over from the Red Room, but he knew better. "I'm going to tell you, it's a strength. It's the strength to keep your humanity, even when someone tries to rip it from you. It's the strength to agonize over the pain that's happened, even when it wasn't at your hand. That's a strength, Clint," the Captain said softly. "Be proud that you feel so much, that you feel pain for what's happened. You're human. You should feel."

"But," he went on, and Clint rolled his head to look at him, still leaning back against the sofa back. "But don't loose yourself to it. Giving in, wallowing, drowning in the pain... that's weakness. And if there's one thing you've proven today, Agent Barton," he said, rather awkwardly getting to his feet, "it's that you're not weak. You're far stronger than I would have guessed, and am infinitely grateful for."

The Captain was standing now, in front of Clint. He held out his hand. "How about some sleep, soldier?" Rogers said, voice soft, hand out.

Clint stared at the hand for a long moment before reaching out and grasping it with his own. It felt like a scary thing, reaching across that distance of mere feet and letting the other man pull him to his feet, but he did it. Because at the end of the day, the Captain was right. He had to go on. Maybe for himself, maybe for Natasha. Maybe for this group of misfits that had come together today.

Rogers clapped him on the back and they started toward the elevators in silence. It was a silent ride downstairs, and Clint stepped into the living area without a word.

The Captain nudged his arm and nodded toward the couch. "I'll let you deal with that," he said quietly. "Good night." The big man turned and moved down the darkened hall, quiet steps in the night.

Clint turned and looked back at the couch, and saw the fall of red hair tangled about one of the sofa pillows. He sighed. Natasha. Painfully, he moved toward her and gingerly eased down onto one knee next to the couch. The drugs must have really knocked her loopy, he thought. Normally, she'd have snapped awake when he and Rogers had come in. She was dressed for bed, she must have stumbled out here to wait for him. He thought he recognized the boxers she was wearing, they'd gone missing before New Mexico. And her shirt, that was one he'd bought for her in Paris as a joke, with a big Eiffel Tower and something crude in French. Her slim, pale legs were barely covered by the too-big boxers.

"Tasha," he said softly, brushing back a red curl. She stirred, but didn't wake. At least, he didn't think so, not until she caught his hand with hers and tugged gently.

"Sleep, Clint," she murmured, not opening her eyes. "Time to sleep."

He let her pull him down onto the couch with her, tucking her against his body as he sank into the cushions. He closed his burning eyes as her weight settled against him, her head against his shoulder. And he finally slept.

* * *

AN - Whew! A bit longer, a bit harder to write... We'll see if it does what I want.

Next Chapter - Black Wool Socks


	10. Chapter 10 Black Wool Socks

Black Wool Socks

They really needed to get back to living on the helicarrier. Frankly, Clint was impressed that Natasha hadn't imploded and seriously maimed Tony Stark yet. The man seemed to delight in dancing right on the edge of peoples' tempers, his included. Clint couldn't count the number of times that he'd caught himself tensing up in preparation for decorating Stark with a black eye. Don't get him wrong, he liked the man. Appreciated working with him. Kinda had the urge to beat him black and blue, but there you had it. Everyone had their flaws.

Natasha, however, was about to loose it and go all ninja on the man's ass. The comments were one thing. The Black Widow was famous for her poker face and biting wit. Nat could be either supremely unaffected or deliver a verbal smackdown, depending on the situation. Frankly, the later usually proved to be quite amusing and had gone a long way toward endearing her to the rest of the team. Even Pepper Potts seemed to have gotten over Nat's undercover deception and was liking the only other woman in the Avengers.

It was the pranks that were going to get Stark killed. Clint and Coulson had never, ever, _ever_ included the Black Widow in their pranks. They knew better. She'd kill them. Slowly, painfully and with a great deal of dramatic flourishes. Clint was no dummy. He valued all of his appendages.

Stark seemed to believe that the Widow was in need of 'loosening up'. Hence his little joke campaign. Every time Natasha's toothbrush disappeared and reappeared in the freezer, every time those lingerie photos from her undercover turned up as Bruce's screensaver (which admittedly had the funny side effect of turning the good doctor bright red and making him sputter in embarrassment), and every time her combat boots suddenly had knotted laces, Clint wondered how long it would take. What would be the last straw.

Clint was in the gun range, idly picking the eyes off the targets, when the door slammed open. Wham! The latest target now had a slightly larger left pupil than the right now. Clint pulled off the ear protectors and laid them down next to his gun.

"Hi, Tasha," he said over his shoulder. "What'd he do now?"

His response was her stomping over next to him, snatching up his gun and proceeding to mutilate the last target he'd been playing with. Clint winced when she was done. The paper man had no head, heart and crotch. Ohhh yeah, she was pissed.

Natasha set down the gun, looking only mildly less irate. "I have had it," she announced. "It is time to go back to the helicarrier. I cannot share a building with that man."

"Iron Man's good on the team," Clint pointed out, crossing his arms and leaning back against the partition. "You like working with him."

"When I need to kill aliens or blow up a building, yes. When I want to eat dinner, no." Natasha set her hands on her hips and scowled. "The man is a colossal ass. I don't know how Pepper deals with him every damn day."

Clint grinned, just slightly. "I think it has something to do with the fact that she's in love with him, and him with her," he said.

He watched as Natasha shifted, almost minutely. It sent slivers of almost an excited tension through him at the discomfort and nerves he could see in his partner.

"Regardless," Clint finally said, taking pity on her and letting the moment pass by. "Stark's certainly a... colorful character. What'd he do now?"

Natasha crossed her arms and scowled even bigger. "He stole my socks," she said.

Clint blinked. "Your socks?"

"My socks," she said with great precision. "My black wool socks, the ones that are soft and warm and the perfect thickness to fit in my combat boots when we have a mission in Siberia. MY SOCKS."

"Right. _Those_ socks." Clint had an idea of the problem now. Nat was rather possessive, first of all, of her equipment. It didn't matter if it was guns or gear or uniform, you didn't touch her stuff. He got it, having the right gear at the right times could mean life or death. And apparently, that might be the case now for Tony Stark.

"I bought those socks in Istanbul, and I have used them on every northern mission for the past two years!" she ranted. "I like those socks! And that... that... немой ублюдок! He took my socks and he filled them with sand! They are stretched out and ruined now!" She banged on the ledge in emphasis. Clint saw a crack appear in the wood.

"Okay, let's... think about this," Clint said, a trifle cautiously. It was worse than he'd thought. Stark has actually destroyed the socks, rather than just taking them. Great. He hadn't actually had 'save Tony Stark's life' on his to-do list today. "You can't kill him, Nat."

"Why not?" She demanded.

"Well, Pepper might object," Clint finally said. It was disturbing that he'd had to think for a second. "Fury probably wouldn't be too keen on it, either. There'd be paperwork, you know." Natasha humphed, but seemed to take his meaning. The Director didn't like extra paperwork.

"Besides," he said. "Wouldn't you rather make him suffer?" He watched with a grin at the spark that flamed up in her eyes. Her rather amazing eyes. Clint shook it off.

"Oh, yes. Yes, I would. What do you have in mind?" the Black Widow asked. Hawkeye grinned back at her and proceeded to lay out the plan he'd been constructing ever since the pranks had begun. He'd had a feeling it would come down to this.

* * *

Several hours later, they were gathered in the kitchen with the rest of the team, Pepper having brought pizzas and the smell of cheese and spices proving to be irresistible. Banner was munching away in his corner, on probably his third piece. Rogers had to be onto his second pie by now. Those super genes sure led to a super appetite. Clint and Natasha were comfortably seated at the counter with a pie between them, and Clint could only be glad that Thor was still out of town (so to speak). They'd have no food left, if the man with the hammer had been there.

Stark was busy canoodling with Pepper in the corner, and apparently hadn't been paying attention to the rapid seizure of pizza slices. By the time he stopped sucking face with his girlfriend, there wasn't much left. So what did the idiot do? He went for a slice off Natasha's plate.

This time, however, the man didn't quite manage to pull one over on the Black Widow. Stark gaped at the fork pinning his sleeve to the countertop as Nat continued to eat. Clint hid his grin behind his own slice.

"What the hell, Arachne?" Stark demanded. "You tried to impale me!"

Clint snorted. "Stark, if she wanted to impale you with a fork, there'd be a fork in your forearm. It's in your sleeve. Count your blessings." He thought he caught a grin in Banner's eyes.

Stark was still sputtering away, mouth still moving, and Clint just sat back and waited. SMACK! Stark's head snapped back from the rather gentle slap Natasha delivered to his face.

"У меня было это! Enough," the Black Widow announced. "You will stop your little games and pranks, Stark, or I shall take you teach you not to irritate me."

Stark, predictably, rolled his eyes. "Look, you crazy woman, I'm just trying to get you to loosen up and relax a little, you really should..." he trailed off when he realized that she'd stopped listening to him. "Uh, what are you doing?" he asked. Still pinned to the countertop.

Clint watched his partner finish pushing the sofa aside and turn to face the whole group. "Barton, if you would please?" she said, standing in the now cleared area.

Clint grinned and reached over to yank the fork out of Stark's sleeve. "With pleasure," he said.

Natasha looked at Pepper. "Don't worry," she said. "Barton told me I shouldn't kill him."

Pepper was clearly unsure what was about to happen, and whether she should be concerned or amused at what was probably going to be something humiliating for her boyfriend. She eventually seemed to decide on amused. "I appreciate that," she said. "He does have his uses, after all."

"Pepper, I can't believe you're siding with her," Stark was protesting. Clint lifted his foot and gave him a not so gentle shove in the backside toward Natasha. Stark stumbled forward, almost running into the Black Widow.

She smiled at him. A very, very scary smile. "Now, Stark," she said. "We're going to have a little lesson."

"Do we have to?" he asked uneasily.

She smiled even more. With teeth. "Oh yes," she said. "Let's begin with why you never, ever, ever touch anything that belongs to me."

* * *

Rogers was the one who caved first. "Ok, that was pretty good," the super soldier said, eyeing Tony lying on the floor. "I admit it. And you can be damn sure I'm not going to touch anything that belongs to you, Romanoff."

"Thank you, Captain Rogers, I appreciate that," Natasha said, sauntering past Stark's outstretched limbs and ignoring the little whimpers. Clint was starting to think the guy was kind of a baby without the suit.

Banner stretched and stood up. "Tony, if you want me to look you over before I turn in, you'd better get up," he said to the man on the floor. A groan was all he got back.

Natasha waved her hand. "Nothing some ice and a few painkillers won't fix," she said. "I didn't even break anything."

"That was very restrained of you," Pepper said with a sigh, standing up herself. "Come on, Tony, you big baby. You know it served you right. Agent Barton _told_ you not to mess with her."

Clint shrugged when Nat's eyes landed on him questioningly. "Hey, I'm no dummy. Why do you think Ph..." he swallowed a little, struggling still over the name. "Why do you think Phil and I never included you in our prank wars?"

Natasha wandered to stand next to him at the counter, leaning ever so slightly against his arm. "You were always smarter than you looked, Barton," she teased gently. Her eyes were warm, and he knew that she was thinking about Phil, too. Damn him for dying.

Stark finally moaned loudly as he got to his feet, Pepper pulling at him not-so-gently. "I hate you all," he grumbled. "Especially you."

"You should let me teach you how to avoid such an ass-whooping," Natasha said sweetly in return. "I teach the new recruits whenever I'm not out on a mission." Clint nodded, perhaps a little too eagerly. He _loved_ watching her fight. And he would LOVE watching her fight Stark on a regular basis.

Tony loudly complained as he and Banner and Pepper went down the hall, detailing his many injuries and how it wasn't fair that the master assassin got to beat the crap out of him in his own home and how Pepper really should stop laughing at him and be a more sympathetic girlfriend... Clint listened in amusement, not moving as the three disappeared.

Rogers got up, giving them a shadow of a smile. "Nicely done, you two," he said. "I don't think we'll have a problem with pranks anymore." He gave the two of them a nod. "I'm going to turn in. See you in the morning."

Clint watched Rogers walk away, Natasha still leaning against the counter next to him, her body close and warm. "So?" he asked softly as the big man disappeared.

She shrugged. "It was too easy," she said. "Stark really needs to get over relying on the suit."

Clint rolled his head over to give her a look. She knew what he meant. Natasha huffed a sigh. "Fine. He's not as colossal an ass as he makes himself out to be," she said. "He took the smackdown like he was supposed to. It still doesn't mean I want to keep sharing a house with him."

Clint kept his eyes on hers, and smiled a little. "Doesn't mean we can't stay for a visit," he said. "After all, Fury does need us back on the helicarrier tomorrow. The new crop of recruits are coming in. Someone's got to teach them a thing or two." Her eyes sparkled, and it made something inside him leap. They stayed that way, not moving, bodies close but barely touching, eyes watching the other. Clint didn't want to move. Somehow, someway, the simplicity of the moment was too perfect, and was too perfectly _them_ to want to change anything.

She was the one who finally sighed, drawing in breath and making her chest rise and fall gently. "Right," she said, pushing off the counter. "I'll see you in the morning."

Clint nodded, staying where he was. "In the morning," he echoed. He got a smile, something soft and warm and that tangled his insides into knots before she turned and slipped silently down the hallway. Clint was left alone in the empty kitchen. He glanced around at the out-of-place sofa, the empty pizza boxes, and then the now-deserted hallway. He smiled.

"In the morning, Nat," he said aloud, and headed for his own room.

* * *

AN - for wicked falcon. This would precede "Black Sports Bra" in "Dresser Drawers", if you're following both stories.

I thought it was time for something a little lighter! Never fear, I have a feeling I'm now going to head toward something a little more... mature.

Next Chapter - Torn Paperback Novel


	11. Chapter 11 Torn Paperback Novel - M!

Torn Paperback Novel

Natasha was feeling slightly desperate, and that wasn't a state she did well in. It wasn't a state that she was used to feeling, truth be told, and hence she didn't deal as well as she might normally. But when your partner and lover was just flung off a fifty-story building, desperate might be an understatement to how someone was supposed to feel.

"CLINT!" It burst out of her throat before she could stop it. "Clint!" Her voice was raw and shrill and not hers at all.

"Widow, WIDOW! I got him!" Stark's voice cut across her consciousness, and she finally processed what he was saying. "I got him, ok? I got him." She was hearing Stark but wasn't really believing what he was saying. She'd seen it, right? She'd watched Clint get knocked backward, seized by the other guy he'd been fighting, seen the grappling and had _known_ what was coming. Her throat had closed, her body had taken a mind of its own, and she'd stopped caring if she killed the goons she was currently taking down, one rooftop over. All she'd been able to process was _movemovemovegettherehelpohgo dclint!_.

"I'm good," his voice came, sounding a bit strangled. "Iron Man's got me, a bit too tight, Stark!" She was at the edge of her own roof, silently strewn bodies not even twitching, foot poised on the edge. Her eyes finally saw the two men rising up, Iron Man with an arm around Hawkeye's chest. The archer was glaring up at the metal face, his bow clutched in one hand.

Her eyes were drawn by the two remaining guys on the other roof, and before she could blink, she'd drawn her guns and shot them both. Drilled them in the center of the forehead.

"Geeze, you couldn't let me have one?" she heard her partner complain. "After all, they threw ME off the roof."

As Iron Man touched down, both men's feet meeting the rooftop, Natasha's chest seemed to unseize. She turned and made for the rooftop access door. She'd deal with all of it later. All her panic, her desperation, her blindness, she'd deal with that later. For now she shoved everything but the mission back down into a little box in the corner of her mind. And then sealed the box with duct tape, cement and put a mental granite block on top of it. Later.

* * *

Later came after clearing her building, one tedious floor at a time. Thank heavens Rogers was working his way up from the bottom, or she'd have been at it another few hours. There'd been a lot of scared office workers, a couple dozen goons, and she'd gotten the prize: the psycho-madman world-ruler-wannabee. He'd been a bit of a pest, what with his laser gun and trained attack pigeons. Honestly. Pigeons? The guy clearly had a Hitchcock issue. Even _she_ knew that movie.

Later came after the five of them met up, sweaty, dirty and a little bloody outside the skyscrapers only to find Agent Hill there with the back-up teams already setting up the perimeter and containment section. Later came after they'd been debriefed, forced through Medical, after they'd escaped the white-coated doctors and gotten back on Stark's jet and landed back at the tower.

Later came when Natasha was standing in her shower, hot water beating down on her face, completely naked and with soap in her hair. That box burst open with a vengeance. All of that fear, that panic, it exploded out of her and she found herself all of a sudden sobbing. Tears poured down her face to mix with the hot water of the shower, and her legs shook and trembled until she just let herself slide down to sit on the floor of the shower stall.

She wasn't sure how long she was down there, but the water was still lukewarm when she finally got to her feet again. Natasha rinsed her hair, stepped out and dried off. Mechanically, she pulled on the black t-shirt and sweats she'd set out before she'd gotten in the shower. Without letting herself look in the mirror, she pulled a comb through her hair and went through her normal beauty routine. Her skin, her looks, they were part of her weapons. She applied lotions and powders without thought.

When she finally opened the bathroom door, it was with a blessedly blank mind. There were no thoughts left, just emptiness. Right up until she saw Clint lying on her bed, bare-chested and in sweats like herself, reading some paperback. Every muscle in her body seized up again and she was right back on that rooftop, watching him fly over the edge.

Clint must not have been too into his book, because when the door had clicked open, he'd looked up with a smile. The warmth in his eyes faded to concern as he took in her expression. "Tasha?" he said, sitting up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His book was still in his hand. "What's wrong?"

"I..." Was that her voice? Since when was her throat this tight? "I can't do this. I can't do this."

Her archer's eyes sharpened, and he set the book down. "Can't do what, Tasha?" he said.

"I can't do THIS!" she burst out. She was nearly without control, nearly unmade in the worst way she'd ever felt. All those sessions in the psych rooms back in Russia as a child... all the drugs, the brainwashing attempts... This was worse. This _mattered_. "I can't watch you fly off a rooftop and not know if you're going to be a splatter on the sidewalk! I can't... I can't feel like this!"

Clint didn't move. His eyes were sharp and steady, watchful. His sniper's body focused on her, on his target. She'd been his target once before, years ago. She was back there for a second, in that dirty alleyway with an arrow pointed at her chest.

"Natasha," he said. Voice calm, steady. Eyes laser sharp on her. "Did you complete the mission?"

"Yes," she said.

"Were you impeded in your ability to complete the mission by my accident?" He was watching her. Very carefully.

She let the silence hang. "... I don't know." And perhaps that was the worst thing. She didn't know.

He cocked his head at her, eyes still steady and sharp. His hands were folded in front of him now. "Were you unable at any point to complete the mission? Were you prevented by my accident and your reaction to it from carrying out the tenants laid out in the mission assignments?" She slowly shook her head. His eyes finally gentled. "Then Tasha," he said softly. "You _can_ do this. Just like I can."

"But..." her breath was struggling to come again. Just like in the shower. "But I... I watched you fall off... and I didn't... I didn't _know_..." To her humiliation and horror, she felt the tears gathering behind her eyes again and she clenched her fists hard in reaction.

"Oh, baby," Clint was in front of her now, arms sliding around her, those strong arms that she never could get out of. Her face was pressed to his bare chest, his heartbeat thumping strong and sure. "Sweetheart." He was rocking her a little, holding her there. Her arms were still stiff, her fists clenched. "Tasha, it's ok to feel that way. I'm scared out of my fucking mind for you a million times a day."

She shuddered. "I don't..." She didn't have words, she'd didn't know how to do this, dammit. She didn't know how to explain what was churning inside of her.

"You're my best friend," Clint was saying, soft into her hair. "My very best friend. And you're the one person in the world I have left to love." She shuddered again at that word. Love. Love was for... "And it's ok to feel that way, Tasha. You're not in the Red Room anymore. And you're not going to suddenly feel any different if we weren't together, and the same thing happened tomorrow. There'd still be a sick, scared feeling in your stomach when I'm in danger, you'd still have that moment of panic when you don't know what's happened to me, and you'd still get knocked over with the relief afterward. And it's ok."

Natasha didn't have the words he did. Maybe it was something else the Red Room had taken from her with all their mind games. She might not have words, but she could show him what she was feeling. Her fists unclenched, her hands lifted to slide around his waist and clutch at his bare back. Her face turned to bury itself in his shoulder. Her arms tightened around his torso. She hugged him to her, as if she'd never let him go.

She felt his arms tighten in response and he pressed his lips against the crown of her head. They stood that way for a long, long moment, wrapped in each other.

Natasha was the one who finally moved. She lifted her head, looking up at him. "Stay safe," she told him seriously, looking straight up into his eyes. "I don't think I can handle it if you don't."

Clint smiled a little, looking right back at her. "Same goes, you know. I loose a little life every time someone lands a hit on you." She held his eyes for another long moment, then nodded slowly. It made it better, somehow, that she wasn't the only one feeling this. She didn't understand why, it wasn't something that made sense. But there it was.

The knot in her chest had finally loosened, and with a exhale of breath, she reached up to kiss him. Their lips met and clung, the sensation going from cherishing to wildly hungry in an instant. Fire was suddenly burning through her, and it was going to burn her up if she didn't get his body joined with hers.

Those strong arms were suddenly bands of steel, hers were snaking up tight around his neck and with a little leap her legs were locked around his waist. The hot, wet kiss was short-circuiting her brain as she ground against him and they went stumbling backwards, falling to the bed and rolling. Clint's hands were greedy and grasping in the best kind of way, roving and claiming. Hers were clutching and taking and claiming, demanding what he had to give her.

She heard a rip, and realized dimly that her shirt was now in two pieces as his mouth came down hard on her bare breast. He sucked and she cried out in shocked pleasure, nails digging into his buttocks. She heard the hiss of his breath against her skin, and then they were rolling and tearing and clutching as clothes somehow were pulled away. When his body plunged into hers, she cried out with the glad relief, legs wrapped around his waist to pull him closer and deeper. His breath was harsh against her neck, her fingers tight in his hair. It was a mad, crazy, brutal dance and she rode the whole glorious wave of it, giving as good as she got right until the end when they went crashing over the edge together.

Afterward she lay there, limp and exhausted in a way that she'd never felt after sex. She had a feeling if she asked Clint, he'd smile and tell her she was tired from all the 'feeling' stuff, too. He lay like the dead, body still joined to hers, face buried in her neck and body pinning hers to the bed.

Natasha finally felt him breathe in a deep sigh, and make to move off her. Her fingers instinctively clutched at him, unwilling to loose that connection. She felt his lips against her collarbone, and then he rolled them, splaying her over his chest. She sighed, hearing the still-rapid thump of his heart beneath her ear. Clint shifted, and reached down to pull the now battered paperback out from underneath him. He tossed it to the floor without even looking, and dropped his arm back around her waist.

"Sleep," he murmured. "We'll deal with it all later."

Natasha sighed again, and slipped her right hand up to lay against his neck, feeling his pulse under her fingers. "Ok," she said, closing her eyes. Later. She could do later.

* * *

AN - For Lena Liz Carter. Whew! A little warm in here now, anyone? Sorry that took so long... :-)

Next Chapter - Broadsword


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